Night Visions (TMR) (Newtmas)

29

Grievers lurked ahead of them. Thomas didn't even have to look—he knew those sounds too well. The sound of their sticky and pudgy bodies rolling slowly on the floor. The sound of their metal pincers opening and closing, like the jaws of a shark. The sound of their needles scratching the floor. The sound of an almost certain death.

"There's at least a dozen of them. Maybe fifteen," Minho announced, rubbing his eyes. It was as if he had aged twenty years in a matter of seconds. "They're just waiting for us!"

Thomas felt fear claw his heart, grip it tighter than ever before. It was hard enough to fool one of the hideous beasts into falling into the abyss at the end of the Maze. Fighting fifteen sounded like a slow and painful suicide, yet it was their only way out. He looked over at Newt, about to say something, but words died in his throat when he saw his pale face—he'd never seen anyone's features twist as much with terror.

However, he quickly composed himself. Along with Alby, he moved up the line of Gladers to join Thomas and the others. Minho's words had already spread across the group, because the first thing  Newt said was "Well, we knew we'd have to fight." Besides from fear, which made his voice quiver, there was now resolution in his eyes. Thomas felt like kissing him so hard they became one.

But... Why were the Grievers waiting? They were a large group, an easy target. Why not attacking them? Was it some kind of twisted game? Were the Creators... enjoying this? Did they have any actual chance? Thomas felt sick to his stomach. Talking about the plan had been easy; now that they faced its reality, his insides were frozen with fear.

"Maybe they've already taken a kid back at the Glade," he suggested, his voice shaky. "Maybe we can get past them—why else would they just be sitting—"

A lound noise from behind cut him off. Thomas felt his heart sinking to the floor, all heat being drained from his body. An ambush. It was an ambush.

More Grievers were rolling down the corridor towards them, with all their lethal metal arms out and ready to kill. Before anyone could even gasp, more horrisone sounds came from the other end of the long alley—another pack of Grievers. They were approaching the Gladers from all sides.

They were completely blocked.

All Gladers crowded against Thomas in a tight group, forcing him towards the intersection where the Cliff met the alley. The Grievers between them and the Cliff drew closer as they pushed him forwards, spikes extended, their skin pulsing like some sort of repulsive heart. Waiting, watching. A lack of sound from the other two corridors let him know that the other groups of Grievers had stopped. Waiting, watching too.

Thomas gulped, realizing that there was no option but to make their way through the Grievers that guarded the Cliff. He was pressed between Newt and Teresa—he could feel Newt trembling. He reached out discretely and squeezed his hand, trying to soothe him. No one said a word. The only soundtrack of the horrid scene were the moans and machinery whirrs from the Grievers' bodies.

What are they doing? Thomas asked Teresa mentally. What are they waiting for?

Teresa didn't answer, which felt like sinking into a freezing cold pool. He grabbed her hand, holding it the way he held Newt's. He gathered the little braveness he had left and tried to transmit it to them. Around them, the Gladers clutched their rough handmade weapons.

"Got any ideas?" Thomas looked over at Newt, who looked like he was going to fall to pieces at any moment.

"No," he replied, his voice just the tiniest bit shaky. "I don't understand what they're bloody waitin' for."

"We shouldn't have come," Alby muttered. He'd been quiet during most of the run, so his voice felt odd now, specially with the hollow echo created by the walls of the Maze.